


Dog With a Bone

by hbunting1403



Series: Mates, but not the Aussie way [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Cora Hale, Alive Laura Hale, Alpha Laura Hale, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dog Trainer Derek Hale, Dogs, Eternal Sterek, Fantasizing, Fantasy, First Kiss, Gay Sex, Good Alpha Laura Hale, Good Sex, M/M, Mates, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Meddling, Meddling Laura, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Scent Marking, Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Sorry Not Sorry, Soulmates, Stiles Stilinski Finds Out About Werewolves, Werewolf Mates, this is the filthiest thing i've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 18:49:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14361465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hbunting1403/pseuds/hbunting1403
Summary: “You,” Derek says, slowly and deliberately, “are beautiful and frustrating, and this isn’t a private enough place for me to tell you all things I’d like to do with your mouth, but I’d really like to show you some time.” Stiles swallows, and Derek’s eyes flicker down to watch the movement of his throat.“That was pretty convincing,” Stiles manages to say after a moment, though it comes out a little more breathless than he’d intended. A small, slightly predatory smile starts to spread across Derek’s face and Stiles is definitely getting a hard-on in a parking lot, oh god. “How soon can we do that dinner exactly?”“I can do tonight?”“Any sooner than that?” Derek huffs out a laugh.“I’ll pick you up at 7.”*Derek is the dog-trainer that Stiles desperately needs. It turns out he might be something else Stiles desperately needs as well.





	Dog With a Bone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aussiebee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aussiebee/gifts).



Stiles has been pacing the narrow, wood-panelled hallway of his two-up-two-down house for an hour when his doorbell rings. He throws his (frankly depressing) weight down the corridor and wrenches the door open; the relief he feels upon seeing a 60 pound basset hound being held aloft by a stranger comes out in a series of noises he didn’t think himself capable of making, one of which could _definitely_ be described as ‘crooning’.

“Oh, you beautiful baby girl - but so _evil_ , sweet Jesus I am never letting you out of my sight again you piece of work, you - oh!” Stiles stops in his tirade - equal parts angry and loving - when he takes in the man holding the dog and his jaw _drops_.

The guy looks like he’s been carved out of marble or something; Stiles could write epic poems about his jaw alone, and his stubble looks soft but would undoubtedly feel pleasantly rough under his hands. His eyes are impossibly beautiful, and the arms holding the dog in the air are muscled beyond anything Stiles has actually seen in real life. He’s kind of the dictionary definition of Tall, Dark and Handsome.

He also looks, unfortunately, incredibly angry.

“I assume this is your dog,” the man says, not bothering to place a question mark at the end of the sentence, because people who look like _that_ don’t need to bother with such mortal concerns as _punctuation_. Stiles takes back his dog with an air of nonchalance that he doubts his skinny ass can actually pull off, and cradles her in his arms somewhat defensively.

“You assume correctly,” Stiles replies primly, the puppy more than happy to stay lying in his arms like a baby without any fuss. “Lemon might look like a basset hound but she’s actually either the spawn of Satan, or possibly a doggy descendent of Houdini himself. She manages to escape once a week but she usually gets bored within a few minutes and comes back.” He deflates slightly, looking down at Lemon with a frown that does nothing to hide his adoration. “I don’t know what to _do_ with you, Liz.” The stranger snorts and Stiles snaps his head back up to see a _devastating_ (and irritating) smirk on Tall, Dark and Handsome’s face.

“You named your dog after Liz Lemon?” Stiles pulls the dog closer to his chest (a mistake, really, because he’s put on some muscle at college but _Jesus_ she’s heavy) and raises his chin slightly. For a split-second he thinks he sees the other man’s eyes flash, but hey, it’s bright outside - trick of the light, probably, since he doesn’t know of any supernatural creatures whose eyes flash. Realistically, it’s probably the Red Bull he’s been mainlining since Lemon went AWOL half an hour ago messing with his meds.

“Lemon also prefers free mozzarella sticks to alcohol, is terrified of youths, and gets really mad when she thinks I’ve eaten her food. She doesn’t yet understand that not all food is her food? We’re working on it. She also has a limited relationship history, but she’s not even one yet, so I think that can be excused.” He pauses for a second. “Also she eats my clothes, but I’m not sure Tina Fey ever did that.” Tall, Dark and Handsome actually huffs out a laugh at that, and Stiles’ eyes widen just a fraction because the guy looks even more gorgeous when he’s smiling and it’s kind of breathtaking.

“It sounds like Lemon might need some behavioural training,” he says slowly, crossing those unfairly muscled arms across his equally unfairly muscled chest and raising a truly impressive pair of caterpillar eyebrows. Oh my god, now the guy’s _eyebrows_ are working for him? Stiles sighs and puts down the dog, unable to suppress a small groan of relief as he does so. He pushes her inside the door gently with his foot and steps onto the porch, shutting the door behind him with a soft _snick_.

“Unfortunately,” Stiles says somewhat morosely, stretching his sore arms into the air and tipping back his head to crack his neck, “I can’t afford behavioural training because I’m shovelling the pitiful amount of money I earn from coding into a Masters course and I only took on Her Highness because nobody else would. It was a favour.” He closes his eyes and lets out a heavy sigh before letting his hands fall back to his sides. When he opens his eyes again, Tall, Dark and Handsome has an expression on his face that’s impossible to parse, though Stiles could’ve sworn he’d been staring at his exposed neck. This means he’s definitely going on a Vampire research bender tonight, so it’s a good thing he started on the Red Bull early - not that he believes in Vampires, even after the Incubus debacle in his first year of college, but it never hurts to be prepared.

He holds out his hand to the stranger, who looks at the outstretched appendage with surprise and confusion.

“I’m Stiles,” he says with a smile, wiggling his fingers and raising his eyebrows. “But I guess you could figure that out from Lemon’s tag. Thanks for bringing the demon back home.” He soon finds his hand enveloped in a warm, firm handshake. It’s a good handshake, and it kind of makes him wonder what the guy’s hand would feel like around his-

“Derek Hale,” the guy says gruffly, and Stiles’ eyes snap up from where they’ve been lingering on their joined hands. For some reason, the tips of Derek’s ears have gone a little pink; can he somehow sense that Stiles is fantasising about literally every atom of his existence? That would be embarrassing. He doesn’t seem like an Incubus, but he’s been wrong before. He quickly lets go of Derek’s hand (he could totally be a touch telepath - that would be _the worst_ ) and bounces on the balls of his feet.

“Nice to meet you, Derek,” he says, and he realises that he actually means that. It’s _very_ nice to meet Derek. He imagines this is what his elderly neighbour felt like when that hot young fireman rescued her even more elderly cat from a tree last Spring; he’d had to bring her an endless supply of tea because she kept going bright red whenever the young man had addressed her or put a consoling hand on her arm. Mrs Donoghue is kind of adorable, as far as budding cougars go.

“If you need some training,” Derek says, his voice low and a little rough, “that’s what I do. Dog training. I could give you a couple of free lessons - see if we can work out some techniques for you both.” Again, he’s not really phrasing things that should be questions _as questions_ , but he’s reaching into the back pocket of his sinfully tight jeans and handing over a business card before Stiles can decide whether or not he still needs to answer.

“Oh!” he says, studying the card intently and running one finger over the embossing, grudgingly impressed. He’s always wanted business cards, but he’s not sure what they’d even say, except maybe _‘Stiles Stilinski - don’t fucking ask if that’s my real name, bucko. Will do most things for curly fries’._  Derek’s are definitely more impressive than that.

**Derek Hale BSc**

Professional Dog Trainer and Animal Behavioural Therapist

202-555-0172

d.hale@houndsfromhale.com

It has an address on the back - presumably the location of the training facility, although that makes it sound a lot less dog-friendly and a lot more military-friendly but _whatever_. It’s a facility. For training. So - training facility.

“Nice,” he says appreciatively, and he looks up with a smile to see that Derek is staring at Stiles’ hands. He realises belatedly that he’s still stroking the business card absentmindedly (which is on super fancy card stock and hey, he’s a tactile guy) and he stills his thumb with an awkward laugh. “Ah, sorry dude - I’ll stop caressing your fancy card now. Lemon could probably do with some training to be honest… Or an exorcism, I haven’t decided yet. Were you serious about the free trial?” Derek meets his eyes, and _Christ_ , what _eyes_. It’s kind of impossible to figure out exactly what colour they are - somewhere between forest green and seafoam, which Stiles appreciates is probably needlessly poetic, but they’re seriously something else.

“Yeah, I was serious,” Derek says after a pause, slipping his hands into his jeans pockets (although Lord only knows how he finds room - seriously, they’re practically painted on) and rolling his shoulders slightly. “Give me a call.” He indicates the card in Stiles’ hand with a nod of his head, and Stiles opens his mouth to reply --- before a crash inside the house reminds him that he essentially has a heavy, shedding toddler to take care of now. He sighs and rolls his eyes, and the corner of Derek’s mouth lifts up slightly.

“I’d better see what that was. I’m not naïve enough to believe it’s not the most expensive thing I own,” he says morosely. Derek huffs out another one of those half-laughs that make Stiles desperately yearn to hear what a full-bodied chuckle would sound like coming from his mouth.

“I’ll see you around,” Derek says with a warmth that definitely wasn’t there at the beginning of this conversation; Stiles puts it down to his undefinable Stilinski charm, but it probably has more to do with the fact that he named his ridiculous dog after a _30 Rock_ character. He leaves and Stiles only watches his ass for about thirty seconds before going inside to assess the damage.

He never much liked that vase anyway.

* * *

 

Two days later Stiles still hasn’t called Derek, which is ridiculous on a number of levels. It’s just going to be a professional phone call; he’s not a prospective _beau_ and he’s not some guy he met in a club - not that Stiles has a particularly good history in that regard either. He doesn’t like to talk about the Incubus incident, but suffice to say it was an intensely traumatic experience involving a lot of blood and a sad lack of mutual orgasms.

Actually, the Incubus was still better than the Succubus for some reason; but that happened to Scott, bless his poor, innocent soul. They don’t talk about _that_ either.

Stiles and his friends were thrown together somewhat haphazardly several years ago, and bonded over their sudden introduction to the supernatural world via Lydia’s realisation that she was a banshee. This realisation came courtesy of half a body in the woods, a near miss with an as-yet unidentified creature of the night, and a lot of screaming. Stiles’ ears were ringing for _weeks_.

Stiles happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time (looking for a body because bodies in the woods are _cool_ to a sixteen-year-old moron - which he unequivocally was), Scott - Stiles’ best friend since they were in diapers - loyally followed him everywhere regardless of how stupid his ideas were, and… well, Stiles still has no idea about Erica and Boyd. He’s pretty sure they were having sex against a tree, but they’d been remarkably put together when they’d been rudely interrupted by their schoolmates, and now they just seem to be along for the ride. Erica’s almost as good as he is with a baseball bat.

And then there’s Jackson. But Jackson’s an asshole and Stiles likes to pretend they don’t know each other most of the time - something Jackson is more than happy to go along with.

They’re not exactly the Winchesters, but experience has taught them to recognise supernatural shenanigans when they see them, and not a month has gone by since that fateful night in the woods that something hasn’t tried to kill, seduce, or maim one of them.

Seriously. What are the _odds_?

Stiles is at Berkeley, and the rest of the gang are spread out across the country in a vain attempt to convince themselves that they’re not all horribly co-dependent. The act falls a little flat when they end up group chatting on Skype at least every other day, and Stiles has to admit that he’s hating Jackson’s face a little less these days. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that. Or rather, absence makes you forget just how much of a raging douche someone was to you all through school - same difference really.

Basically, Stiles has rid the world of his fair share of things that go bump in the night, but he’s weirdly terrified of calling _a goddamn dog trainer_ just because he was hotter than the surface of the sun. Somewhere across the country, Lydia is definitely laughing at him - probably while drinking champagne on the balcony of her fancy apartment, that classy bitch. She’d tell him to woman up and make the damn call, but she’d also tell him that he’d better not be wearing a graphic tee to his first training session, and that he looks like a homeless person when he doesn’t brush his hair… And her advice, while often cruelly delivered, is usually pretty on point. Even if Stiles _does_ end up breathing the same air as Derek again, he’s unlikely to want to jump into Stiles’ pants at the first available opportunity.

Especially since Lemon just chewed up his last serviceable pair of jeans. He stares at them sadly and tries to muster up the energy to tell her off, but she’s just sitting at his feet looking up at him with those big, basset hound eyes… It’s impossible. He groans. Why did he have to get the charity case dog whose entire species seem to have been bred to look perpetually apologetic?

He throws the jeans in the trash and puts on an old pair of running shorts. Lemon’s got a lot of energy and he knows he doesn’t take her out nearly enough, but his Master’s thesis has been kicking his ass lately; he needs to wear her out today so he can get some work done uninterrupted this evening. He struggles out of the old, threadbare t-shirt that serves him as pyjamas these days - Batman all the way, baby - and pulls on his least ratty tank top with a sigh.

“Lemon, I love you for some reason - it’s probably witchcraft or something - but you have got to stop destroying my clothes, baby. I’m serious. I need money to buy curly fries, peanut butter, and pet food - I can’t afford to buy new jeans every week. I know you love to eat as much as I do, so really this is in your best interest.” She looks up at him, apologetic eyes still as hopeless as ever, and he sighs again, before crouching down to clip on her lead. “I swear to god, Lemon, I’m going to be firm with you one of these days.” He stands up again and runs a hand over his face. He’s such a fucking pushover.

A moment later he’s out the door, wallet, phone and keys shoved into his pocket, smiling as the sun instantly warms his pathetically pale skin. Literally nobody at college believes him when he says he’s lived his whole life in California because in some lights he looks practically translucent.

He starts off with a light jog, going their usual route through a nearby dog park, and Lemon happily trots alongside him, generally more interested in keeping up with him than with sniffing at the bushes. At least he’s never had trouble with her on the lead, which is of little comfort to him when he thinks about the parade of ripped jeans and tattered trainers that she’s left in her furry, demonic wake.

He’s so busy thinking up money-making schemes to fund replacement clothing (how much could he actually generate from homemade softcore pornography? If he really gave it his all?) that he actually runs directly into what feels like a brick wall. He bounces off with an ‘oof!’ of surprise and falls on his ass, accidentally tugging on Lemon’s lead as he does so; she lets out a confused yelp and tumbles down next to him, and looks up at him with --- yep, there are those goddamn eyes again.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says soothingly, gently petting her head and rubbing her ears until she’s snuffling into his hand contentedly. He turns to the brick wall to demand an apology for nearly killing him and his furry companion (he’s a little overprotective of the destructive fucker, okay?), but he’s pulled up short when he realises who exactly the brick wall _is_.

“Dogs are surprisingly resilient, but you should probably watch where you’re going anyway,” Derek says, frowning and offering his hand to pull Stiles up from the grass. Stiles takes the hand - the grip is just as firm as he remembers, and he unashamedly files that away for later use - and finds himself being hauled to his feet like he weighs nothing. He narrows his eyes at Derek.

“Dude, you could at least pretend like that was hard,” he says, wondering privately just how long he can leave his hand in Derek’s grip before it gets weird. He doesn’t have to wonder for long, as Derek kind of coughs, looking at their hands pointedly a second later, and Stiles reluctantly disengages.

“I work with a lot of really big dogs,” Derek says placidly, shrugging and crouching down to offer his hand to Lemon to sniff. She immediately deems him to be acceptable and a moment later she’s in receipt of what look to be the best belly rubs imaginable.

Stiles definitely isn’t jealous.

“You didn’t call,” Derek says, his voice still very level as he gives Lemon one last pat and straightens up. “Has she stopped destroying your belongings and escaping the house in the last couple of days?” Stiles stares at him for a second before shaking his head slowly. He’s pretty sure Derek’s hiding disappointment, which makes no sense.

“Oh no, she’s still doing that on a pretty regular basis,” he says, looking down at the offending pup with a wry grin. “She tore up my last good pair of jeans today - didn’t you, Liz? I really don’t know why I like her - there were holes where the general public would not have been pleased to see holes.” Stiles waggles his eyebrows conspiratorially and Derek looks mildly concerned.

“So you just didn’t see the need for training?” Stiles winces.

“I was totally gonna call you, dude - I’ve just been writing my Master’s thesis and I think it might be trying to kill me. Don’t worry, you’re the only dog trainer for me.” For some reason he decides to wink when he says this, and he’ll be eternally grateful for whatever deity forced Derek to look at his demon dog at that precise moment, because it means that he misses the gesture entirely. When he looks up again, it’s with an air of genuine interest.

“What’s your area of study?” he asks, which is a terrible question to ask Stiles because he fucking _loves_ his area of study, and he can literally talk about it for hours.

“Oh, I’m studying Criminal Psychology, but my thesis is on how societal feelings towards the supernatural and the dark unknown echoes contemporary thoughts on criminality - like how everyone knows Stoker wrote _Dracula_ to be this terrifying foreign body, thereby criminalising the foreign Other? And not only that but he codes sex as criminal too, and especially female sexuality - which, don’t get me _started_ on that because that’s a whole other thesis,” he says, waving a vague hand in the air. He pauses, but Derek doesn’t seem to want to stop him. He doesn’t push his luck though. “So yeah, anyway - supernatural stuff is my jam.” It’s a bit of a lame finish, but Lemon is vibrating with energy next to him - he can feel it down the lead, honestly - so he probably needs to get going. Although it would be a damn shame to give up this view, come to think of it; Derek’s obviously been out jogging, and in place of the sinful jeans of last week he’s wearing sweatpants that look soft and well-worn, and he’s actually foregone a shirt entirely, though Stiles can see it tucked into the waistband of his sweats. He looks, on reflection, like something out of one of Stiles’ wet dreams, and he tries desperately not to think about how soft Derek’s dark hair would feel between his fingers while Derek sucked him off.

It doesn’t work - Stiles can feel the heat rising in his face, and Derek is once again looking at him with a vague air of alarm, like he knows _exactly_ what he’s thinking. At least he can rule out touch-telepathy now, since they’re not actually touching (as much as he may want to run his tongue along the indecent grooves of Derek’s hip bones and trail his hands up those strong thighs - he wonders if he’s as gruff in bed. He probably growls, _fuck_ ). He can’t, however, rule out regular telepathy, as the tips of Derek’s ears are going red again. Maybe he’s just really sensitive to the sun? It’s a warm day, even for Cali, and the sun is taking no prisoners.

“That sounds interesting,” Derek says, sounding a little bit strangled. He looks at his watch and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve got an appointment to be getting to, but give me a call if you want to bring Lemon along any time this week. I’ve got a few free slots Thursday and Friday.”

“Friday would be good actually,” Stiles says quickly - he’s got no lectures to go to and the library is kind of difficult to spend a great deal of time in when you know you have to get back to a hyperactive hound with apparent abandonment issues. Also he kind of thinks he deserves a day off from writing his thesis to stare at Derek’s abs at every available opportunity.

Stiles has never claimed to be a good person.

An almost-there smile drifts momentarily across Derek’s face before he carefully schools his expression back into something more neutral. Stiles is briefly filled with the kind of anger he usually reserves for child molesters and rapists because whoever made Derek feel like he wasn’t allowed to express happiness probably deserves a long walk off a short pier. While on fire.

And then Stiles is typing his number into Derek’s phone and they’re setting a time and Derek is running off with a wave like he doesn’t know just what his ass looks like in those goddamn sweatpants. Stiles looks down at Lemon, who is completely uninterested in human parts, and who is now letting out a low, continuous whine to express her displeasure at their jog having been cut short - especially since she’s no longer benefiting from belly rubs.

“Yeah, yeah - I know. Come on then, baby, let’s keep going. I promise I won’t stop and talk to any more insanely hot guys until you’re completely exhausted and incapable of stealing my dinner tonight while _flagrantly_ ignoring your own.”

* * *

 

Friday comes around as usual - just after Thursday and just before Saturday - and Stiles is completely wrung out from working around the clock, so he lets himself sleep in. He has to get up at 7am to let Lemon out into the garden and put out some dry food for her, but after that she’s more than happy to trot back to her bed in the living room, so he goes back to sleep. Stiles has nearly finished his thesis, so he’s just got a couple of months of re-writes and edits in front of him; he’s not free exactly, but he’s at least going to have a bit more time for Lemon.

Which means, potentially, more time for Derek. He has all the time in the _world_ for Derek.

He gets up at 11am (his first year undergrad self is screaming at him that it’s not really a lie-in unless it’s starting to get dark again outside but he ignores it) and starts the long and arduous task of finding a pair of pants that Lemon hasn’t managed to sink her teeth and claws into. Right at the back of the cupboard he finds a pair of unworn black jeans that are definitely too tight to have been one of his own purchases. In fact, Stiles isn’t sure he’s ever seen them before, let alone worn them, which means Lydia bought them in the vain hope that he would see sense and start to dress more like an adult and less like a twelve-year-old comic book nerd.

Hardly fair, really. Stiles is actually a _twenty-three_ -year-old comic book nerd, thank you very much.

He finds a plain black t-shirt and a green plaid shirt that doesn’t look too offensive, and throws everything on the bed, carefully closing the bedroom door behind him when he leaves for the bathroom. He’s learned his lesson there; Lemon may appear to be sleeping soundly in the living room, but the second she hears him open his bedroom door she’s on high alert. She’s well aware that there are some fantastically chewable items in that room and she wants _in_.

After a quick shower and tooth brushing, Stiles goes back to his room to change. Lemon is, predictably, sitting facing the door, her tail wagging at high speed.

“Liz,” Stiles says in a dangerous voice - she immediately turns to greet him with her adorable eyes and face and _existence_ and all he can do is sigh resignedly. He squats down to scratch her ears and she blinks adorably up at him - he’s 99.9% sure it’s _him_ that needs the training, truth be told. If his many escapades with Scott have taught him anything, it’s that he’s never going to be immune to puppy eyes (although Scott’s might actually be even _more_ powerful than Lemon’s).

He lets her out into the back garden again and she potters about chasing butterflies and staring up at the sky in confused wonder while Stiles goes back to his room to get dressed. The pants are almost _too_ tight, but they’re not uncomfortable and he doesn’t have much of a choice - unless he wants to grab his last pair out of the trash and get arrested for public indecency.

He’s not got his appointment until three o’clock, which means he has a couple of hours to kill. The house is a mess - partially thanks to Lemon, but mostly thanks to Stiles’ recent focus on his thesis - so he rolls up his sleeves and does a thorough clean of his bedroom first of all. It’s mostly cosmetic - clothes strewn across the floor, the odd plate or empty Red Bull can here and there - but he definitely needs to build up to the kitchen.

The kitchen takes him an hour to clean. It’s not that he’s a slob, but he’s been eating a fair amount of ready meals and so the recycling alone gives him ten minutes of trouble; he likes to wash out and dry the containers because god _damn_ it, he is an upstanding citizen. He doesn’t have a dishwasher either, so the dishes take another twenty minutes, but by the time he’s finished wiping down surfaces and sweeping debris from underneath the fridge, the place is sparkling. He’s even cleaned out the fridge, which is fairly easy at the moment because it’s almost completely empty.

He breathes a little easier now. He’s always found comfort in cleaning - which most people would have scoffed at in his teen years had they caught sight of his bedroom floor - because it stills a buzzing in his head that’s been there for as long as he can remember. He knows now that it’s his ADHD, but when he was a kid, he’d grab a duster and “help” his mother clean the house, and a combination of her low, lilting hum and the repetitiveness of the task gave him a purposeful sense of calm. After she’d passed, it became even more important for him to keep things clean and he nearly became obsessed; if the supernatural hadn’t up and smacked him in the face all those years ago, there’s no doubt in his mind that he’d have been able to add clinical OCD to his list of issues before he hit eighteen. It’s hard to be obsessed with _anything_ when you’re busy trying not to die.

He checks his watch and realises it’s almost time for him to leave - Google Maps says the place is a twenty minute drive away, but Google Maps doesn’t know about the varying and unpredictable top speed of his beloved Jeep. He calls Lemon in from where she’s been lazing in a patch of sun in the back garden and locks the backdoor. He has to wrestle one of his trainers out of her mouth (she _has_ to be solar powered or something, she’s got so much energy all the time) and he feels fucking _terrible_ when he scolds her, but he’s really got to start somewhere with this whole discipline thing.

Plus, these are his favourite trainers.

Ten minutes later, Lemon is sitting primly in the back seat of the car, eyeing the front passenger side with an innocent look that Stiles knows better than to trust.

“You,” he says sternly, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as the light in front of him stays resolutely red, “are sitting in the back, Lemon. If I ever let you sit in the front I am confident that you would somehow manage to knock me out, steal my keys and commandeer this vehicle. Don’t think I don’t know all about your demonic plans. I don’t know how you’d reach the pedals and steer at the same time but I’ve seen _The Secret Life of Pets_ , buddy - I know you have your methods.” He doesn’t even have to look back at Lemon to know that her gaze has turned to him. It’s probably withering.

Fortunately, the demon dog does not try to commandeer the Jeep for her own nefarious purposes, and they manage to get to the training centre without incident and with five minutes to spare. Lemon is immediately fascinated by the building, putting her paws up on the back window while Stiles clambers out of the Jeep, her head cocked to the side and one ear slightly raised (as much as basset hounds _can_ raise their ridiculous, _adorable_ floppy ears). Stiles is vaguely aware of some barking going on in what he presumes is an open area at the back of the centre, which is probably what’s caught her attention.

“Come on then, you hellhound,” he says, grunting as he manoeuvres her out of the car without causing either of them any permanent injuries. He’d left her lead on for the journey, since Lemon often likes to play a game Stiles can only assume is called ‘Chase Me Chase Me,” wherein she makes a dash for it the second the car door opens. She seems to be on her best behaviour today, however, and trots happily alongside him as he makes his way to the shining glass doors to the building. The sign above the door says “Hounds From Hale” and Stiles snorts.

How apt.

There’s a woman sitting in reception who is, objectively, absolutely stunning, but whose eyebrows suggest that telling her so would not go well for you. It’s not hard to work out that she’s a Hale.

“Hi - do you have an appointment?” she asks, raising said eyebrows and looking pointedly at Lemon, who is eyeing a nearby pot plant with far too much interest.

“Hi! Yeah - Stiles Stilinski here with-”

“Lemon,” the woman interrupts, a pleased - if slightly predatory - grin spreading across her face. She looks delighted, and for some reason this is a completely terrifying prospect. “My brother’s mentioned you _several_ times. My name’s Cora.” She sticks out her hand and Stiles fumbles momentarily with Lemon’s lead before reaching out for an almost painfully firm handshake.

“I guess he told you I nearly brained myself running into him at the park then?” he says with a nervous laugh. “I swear he’s made of stone, he didn’t even flinch. It was embarrassing.” Cora’s grin gets, if possible, even wider; Stiles is half expecting her face to split in two to reveal a fire-breathing dragon or possibly a Lamia. They had to fight one of those a few years ago - Stiles still has nightmares sometimes.

“He may look like an angry, brooding brick wall, but he’s a marshmallow really,” she says conspiratorially, looking away to type into her computer. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “You’re right on time,” she says, and turns suddenly to the opaque glass doors that must lead into the main body of the building off the foyer. “Marshmallow incoming!” she adds brightly, five seconds before Derek opens the doors.

He looks absolutely furious, but fortunately his ire seems to be directed at his sister rather than at Stiles.

“Cora!” he barks, which is frankly unnecessary, since Cora is already looking directly at him, grinning widely.

“Derek, I was just telling Stiles here how we’ve heard his name about the place - he’s very-” But Stiles doesn’t get to find out what he very much is because Derek honest-to-God _growls_ at his sister, and she shuts up immediately. She doesn’t stop smirking though, which is a little disconcerting.

“ _T_ _hat’s enough_ ,” he says with some force - Cora just shrugs and stands up so she can get a better look at Lemon, who is now - predictably - sniffing the plant pot with far too much enthusiasm. She’s never peed on any of Stiles’ houseplants, but this one looks so well cared-for she probably can’t resist the urge to defile it. He gently tugs on her lead and she grudgingly trots back to his side, sitting and cocking her head at Cora.

“Cute dog,” she says, sitting back down and turning to her computer. “Anyway, I think Derek’s ready to see you now.” Derek, who is still standing there, levels her with a malevolent glare hot enough to melt steel. She looks back at him and smiles sweetly. Stiles coughs.

“Not that a Hale sibling showdown wouldn’t be immensely entertaining, but I’m actually pretty invested in stopping my dog’s systematic destruction of my entire wardrobe. These are officially the only pants I have left and I think Mrs Donoghue next door might have a coronary if she sees me in them.” Derek’s eyes flick away from his sister and drag slowly up Stiles’ entire body. Stiles fucking _feels it_ like a physical caress, and suppresses a shudder with no small degree of effort. Derek meets his eyes and he doesn’t really know how to interpret what he sees there.

He is, however, 100% certain that Derek just checked him out.

“They seem fine to me,” Derek says roughly, clearing his throat and looking back at Cora, who is staring at her brother like he’s a puppy who’s done a new and particularly clever trick. “Mrs Cleveland called me directly to cancel her appointment this afternoon - don’t book anyone else in.” Cora salutes him and turns back to her computer with a smirk.

Derek grits his teeth and turns back to Stiles who, as usual, has no idea what’s going on. Derek turns towards the double doors and motions for Stiles to follow and, still a little dazed by the _blatant_ checking out that had just happened, he does so, Lemon trailing along behind him with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity radiating from her droopy little body.

“So,” Stiles says slowly, following Derek down a long corridor with floor-to-ceiling windows and trying desperately not to stare at his ass. “Is this how you communicate with all your clients? Because I’m totally fine with the strong, silent type thing you’ve got going on - very mysterious - but I do worry about the future of your business if you don’t really speak to people.” He’s joking, obviously, but he can practically hear Derek rolling his eyes ahead of him.

“People don’t come to me for small talk,” he says shortly, and Stiles actually chokes because _he knows exactly what he came here for_. Derek (almost) correctly interprets his coughing fit and even from behind, Stiles can see the tips of his ears going red. “Not - _Christ_ ,” Derek mutters, stopping to open a door on the right and indicating that Stiles and Lemon should go ahead of him. “I’m a good trainer. _That’s_ why people come here. Not…” He waves a hand in the vague direction of his body, and Stiles raises his eyebrows.

“Not the smoking hot bod?” Derek’s ears are practically on fire now and he’s positively glowering. Stiles throws his hands up in defence and shuffles sideways through the door, trying not to brush up against the aforementioned _smoking hot bod_ too obviously. “Just working with the material you’re giving me, dude.” Derek pushes Stiles - none-too-gently - into the room, which he can now see looks not unlike a school gym. Except it’s much nicer than his school’s gym had ever been, and there’s loads of cool equipment that is definitely not intended for human use, no matter how much he may _totally want to use it_. Clearly seeing the glint in Stiles’ eye, Derek sighs.

“Please do not try to use the equipment in here yourself - it’s for dogs.” Stiles pouts, though he likes to think that it’s a manly pout, even knowing full well that it isn’t.

“They have all the fun.”

“Not all of it,” says Derek mildly, and turns away to do something enigmatic (probably) before Stiles can ask him what the hell _that’s_ supposed to mean. Stiles looks down at Lemon, who is looking blissfully unaware of his human struggles, and also slightly like she might wet herself with excitement at the sight of the various chew toys that Derek is bringing over.

“Sit down,” Derek instructs, pointing at the cushioned mat in the centre of the room before somehow getting into a cross-legged position himself with grace and aplomb. Stiles goes instead for sort of… falling to the ground, eventually managing to untangle various limbs and leads from one another and crossing his legs with an expression he _hopes_ is dignified, but which is more likely to come across as constipated. Derek raises an eyebrow.

“I was not blessed with gazelle-like grace,” Stiles concedes with a sigh. “If I didn’t look so much like my parents I’d think they’d adopted a rogue sloth-squid hybrid.” The other man looks reluctantly amused by this image, so Stiles considers it a win (even though he’s not joking; he used to look for the adoption certificate confirming that he was a chimerical changeling child).

“We’ll focus on just the one animal today,” Derek says drily, turning his focus to Lemon; she’s currently standing next to Stiles, her tail thumping (hard) into his arm with each enthusiastic wag. “Your main issue with Lemon seems to be her chewing habits - namely, that she keeps destroying things like jeans and trainers. Correct?” Stiles nods, watching intently as Derek places one of the chew toys gently in front of Lemon, who attacks it with enthusiasm as soon as it’s dropped. “There are three main reasons that a dog becomes destructive towards your personal belongings. The first is temptation - do you leave shoes and clothes in places she can get to?” Stiles runs a hand through his hair and shrugs.

“I guess so? I mean, my shoes are in the hall, so she has access to those pretty much all the time. But she seems to prefer pants, which are in my room if they’re not - you know… on me.” Derek nods.

“Do you leave your bedroom door open when there are clothes on the floor?”

“I try not to but it… slips my mind sometimes. If I’m in a rush to get to a meeting with my thesis supervisor - which is, like, always - I forget. Which is my fault,” Stiles admits, looking over at Lemon - she’s still putting her all into shredding a rubber bone. “I guess that’s why I have trouble telling her off about it?” Derek’s lips quirk into a small but genuine smile, which does funny things to Stiles’ insides.

“That doesn’t surprise me. I assume from what you’ve said previously that she wasn’t… planned?” Stiles snorts.

“Dude, you make it sound like I got knocked up on prom night,” he says, watching with some satisfaction as Derek’s ears start to colour again. “But yeah - I never intended to get a dog, especially not when I was still so busy with college. But my buddy Scott from back home found a litter of basset hound puppies in a cardboard box by the side of the road a little while ago… He got homes for a bunch of them but for some reason nobody wanted our girl here.” He sighs and rubs her ears affectionately, which she completely ignores in favour of her new chew toy. “Scott’s landlord doesn’t allow pets, or he’d have kept her himself, but I um-” Here Stiles stops and looks at the floor, rubbing a hand through his hair again so it sticks up at odd angles. “I own my place. My mom died when I was a kid and she had life insurance - for such a scatterbrained woman she was weirdly organised, I guess. My dad didn’t want me to worry about rent and stuff so we managed to find a fixer-upper that wasn’t too far from college. You should’ve seen it when I first got it - it was an absolute mess. Peeling paint, mould, there was a ladder up to the top floor instead of a staircase… I had to convince my dad it just needed a little work doing, but he caved eventually. He’s stubborn, but I’m worse.” He snorts then sits up suddenly, realising he’s gone off topic; while this isn’t exactly an abnormal occurrence for him, things are getting personal pretty fast and it’s not like him to be so frank about his mother’s death. Stupid Derek and his stupid calming presence. Maybe he has magical abs. Stiles looks up to see Derek looking at him with something akin to fondness, and his heart flips over in his chest.

“We lost our parents a long time ago - their life insurance paid for this place,” Derek says softly, indicating the room in which they now sit. “It doesn’t make it better, but I think they’d be glad to see us exercising our talents.” Stiles laughs, and it’s brighter than he’s expecting.

“Talents like bringing all the boys to the yard?” he says blithely, grinning and finally giving in to the urge to go through the toys on the floor between them. Derek raises his eyebrows.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Stiles scoffs and tries to ignore the implications of that offhand sentence.

“I’m not _‘boys'_ ,” he says with a sniff. “I’m _men_. Manly men. I have a very masculine dog and I go jogging and fight ghouls on the weekend.”

“You’re ‘men’? Plural?”

“I feel like you’re ignoring the important parts of that sentence.”

“Grammar is very important, Stiles. I thought _men_ understood that.”

“At least you’re not arguing that Lemon isn’t an incredibly masculine dog - I feel like she’d be hurt by that insinuation.” Derek rolls his eyes.

“Yes, the basset hound who has you wrapped around her little paws is a very masculine dog. Now, shall we get back to the training aspect of this appointment?”

“There are other aspects?” Stiles says breezily, earning himself another eye roll and a sigh - seriously, Derek is going to get eye strain if he’s not careful. Stiles holds his hands up placatingly, a squeaky corn on the cob dangling from his left hand. “Okay, okay - please, Yoda, tell me how to get my dog to stop chewing on my shit. I’ll be good I swear.” The look on Derek’s face says he doubts that, but before he can say anything, the doors to the room slam open dramatically and Stiles nearly flattens Lemon as he flings himself desperately away from his would-be attacker.

He’s a college student with a Red Bull addiction and ADHD whose dad works in law enforcement; he can get a little jumpy.

“Jesus, I can hear you flirting from next door, will you keep it down? I’m trying to work and all I can hear is-” the voice breaks off with a gasp. “Oh my god, _Derek_ , he’s adorable!” Stiles straightens up, face on _fire_ , and stares at the newcomer. She is, unmistakably, a Hale, and she looks more amused than annoyed which is definitely a look he’s seen duplicated on Derek’s face before. She’s less obviously terrifying than Cora, but Stiles still has the creeping feeling that she could break him in half with one hand if he pissed her off.

“Laura, I’m with a _client_ ,” Derek growls - something he does a lot - and the Supernatural Dictionary part of Stiles’ brain slowly whirrs into life without his input. Laura raises her eyebrows and there’s a definite eye-flash… It’s red, and something kind of clicks into place in Stiles’ mind with the inevitability of one of Lydia’s homemade Molotov cocktails hitting its mark.

Fuck Scott, he totally wins the bet they had about werewolves being real.

“If this is how you are with all our clients I don’t know how we stay in business.” Laura cocks her head to the side - like a big dog, Stiles can’t help but think somewhat hysterically - and amends her statement. “Actually, I get roughly twenty emails a day that lapse into poetry about the colour of your eyes, and I’ve had several married customers ask me for your personal number for ‘extra training’ so I guess I know _exactly_ how we stay in business.” Derek honest-to-god _pinches the bridge of his nose_ and lets out a put-upon sigh, because apparently he’s a beautiful cliché as well as being a supernatural furry.

“Laura, I am trying to work,” he says through gritted teeth, and Stiles can’t help but notice that said teeth seem a little bit sharper than normal ( _werewolves, werewolves, werewolves,_ his brain chants helpfully). “Stiles has brought in his dog, Lemon, for behavioural training. He is a _client_. Are you done?”

Stiles puts his hand up and the Hale siblings slowly turn to stare at him.

“Are you putting your hand up to ask a question?” Laura asks breathlessly, seemingly too charmed to breathe properly.

“Yeah, hi - just a quick one here! I’m not denying the flirting thing by the way because, you know, I have working eyeballs and a lick of good sense, but how did you manage to hear us from the other side of that wall?” he asks innocently, pointing at the far side of the room with a raised eyebrow. It’s quite clearly made of brick, all of the internal walls mirroring the outside structure for stability and endurance, but the majority of it is also covered with huge swathes of shock-proof padding. This, while a sensible precaution when training unruly hounds, _should_ make it nigh-on impossible for any sound to pass through to the next room.

If you have puny human ears, anyway.

“Your voice carries,” Laura says smoothly, and damn if she hasn’t got _his_ number in thirty seconds flat. Stiles’ eyebrows climb higher.

“Right,” he says, leaning back on his forearms and stretching out his legs; he’s big on appearing non-threatening to predators, oh yes indeed. “So it’s definitely not because you’re a family of werewolves using your supernatural abilities to train good ol’ _canus lupus familiaris_ how to run with their forefathers?”

The room is unnervingly silent for a moment. Even Lemon, apparently sensing the tension, looks up from destroying a perfectly good chew toy in order to look between Stiles, Derek and Laura with mild bewilderment. Derek looks shocked, but not angry, and Laura looks --- actually, she looks entirely unsurprised. In fact, she even looks a little amused.

“That,” she says slowly after the silence has stretched on for too long to be natural, “is a very odd question to ask. Really specific. And also, ‘forefathers’ is a bit sexist,” she adds, and Stiles grins at her good-naturedly.

“You’re right, of course. Ancestors? I feel like that’s probably better. Anyway, I’m mostly just here to get my dog trained, not to ‘out’ you to the general public, so no need to sharpen your canines or anything.” He nods to Derek, whose face is now showing a whole smorgasbord of emotions that Stiles can’t begin to interpret, but he thinks he sees a flash of relief. “My buddies and I deal with people’s supernatural problems when we have the time spare - one of my friends is a banshee and that tends to open your eyes a little. Werewolves though…” He sits up and stretches. “ _So_ cool.”

“Not that I’m admitting to anything,” Laura says with a grin that says she’s enjoying this a lot more than her brother, “but you’re remarkably blase about being in a room with two supposed predators.” Stiles looks back to Derek, who’s managed to school his expression into something neutral, and lets a slow smile spread across his face.

“I have it on good authority that Derek is secretly a marshmallow.”

*

Derek and Laura neither confirm nor deny anything, but Stiles knows he’s right, and they know he knows he’s right, so there’s not much more to it than that. Laura leaves after a while and the session goes really well. Derek’s amazing with Lemon, and Stiles starts to realise that his borderline negligence hasn’t actually done any permanent emotional damage to his dog, which is more of a relief than he’d realised. Derek remains the most beautiful person Stiles has ever seen up close, and he has the sneaking suspicion that - at the very least - Derek isn’t totally immune to the Stilinski charm.

This suspicion is compounded when Derek does the last thing Stiles expects and _asks him on a date_.

Stiles is clipping the lead back on his (now thankfully exhausted) dog when Derek clears his throat a little awkwardly. Stiles straightens up and turns around to see that Derek’s cheeks are slightly pink and-

“Oh my _god_ , you were staring at my ass!” Stiles says delightedly, and he watches with fascination as the flush on Derek’s cheeks starts to make its way up to his ears. This might actually be the best day of his life. His dog is too tired to be an asshole, a hot werewolf is checking him out and _oh yeah - werewolves are real_.

Scott is gonna be so psyched.

“I-” Derek is definitely about to deny the blatant ogling he was doing, so Stiles holds his hand up and shakes his head.

“Nope, this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I don’t want you to ruin it with your lies,” he says, turning to Lemon, who has decided to lie back down on the floor, since standing up is so _exhausting_. “You saw him right, Liz?” She cocks her head to the side but is otherwise no help.

“I was just _wondering_ ,” Derek grits out, arms folded across his stupid sexy muscular chest, “if you’d like to go out for dinner some time.” As is his way with questions, it’s posed as a statement without any clear punctuation, but Stiles deduces from the defensive posture that he’s actually nervous -- as if Stiles might have received a severe head injury in the last five minutes and has suddenly changed his mind about wanting to bring the guy soup while simultaneously climbing him like a tree.

He has _depths_ , okay? He is multi-faceted.

“Are you kidding? Absolutely! Are you sure you’re feeling okay though? Because this kind of thing doesn’t usually happen to me,” he says -- maybe a little too honestly. Derek frowns.

“What kind of thing?”

“Oh, y’know - supernaturally hot guys I have a huge crush on asking me out even though they already know exactly how spastic I am?” Stiles gives a slightly self-deprecating smile. “Yeah, that’s a new one on me.”

Derek’s blush somehow deepens further, and he looks reluctantly pleased. Stiles can tell. He’s the Derek whisperer.

“I think you’re underestimating your own appeal,” he says gruffly, unfolding his arms and shoving his hands in his pockets. This has the unintended side-effect of bringing Stiles’ attention to things he shouldn’t be looking at (until the second date at least, he’s a _gentleman_ ), and he resolutely keeps his eyes on Derek’s face, where a small but genuine smile appears to be forming. Stiles grins back, unable to help himself.

“Oh my _god_ , you guys are such goobers,” Laura says from the doorway, where she has magically and silently reappeared, snapping both Stiles and Derek out of their loved-up staring contest. Derek sighs and starts to shepherd Stiles towards the occupied doorway. The heat of his hand seeps through Stiles’ thin cotton t-shirt and button-up and he tries in vain to pretend that’s not the sexiest thing that’s happened to him in his adult life -- because that makes him sound even sadder than he knows he is.

“I thought we had rules about eavesdropping when I’m with clients?” Derek says testily, managing to maneuver both of them (and a dog) around Laura in a feat of grace that is no longer surprising given recent revelations.

“Just using what my momma gave me,” she says, waggling her eyebrows obscenely and following them down the corridor towards the reception desk with a spring in her step.

“So, where are you gonna take him, Derek? Somewhere fancy? A place with low lighting where you can feel him up under the-” Derek elbows her in the stomach but she barely even breaks stride. Stiles tries to keep his laughter under wraps but he doesn’t do a very good job.

He’s pretty sure his shoulders are still trembling slightly with it when they enter the reception area. Cora has somehow managed to get hold of a helium balloon that says “Congratulations!” and underneath it she’s written in Sharpie “for not pussyfooting around this for 2 years”.

Stiles starts laughing in earnest. He thinks Derek is trying to look annoyed but the eye roll just looks hopelessly fond, even as he grabs the balloon and imprisons it in a nearby broom cupboard.

“Finished?” he asks, raising those impressive eyebrows at his two sisters, whose faces indicate that they are _definitely not finished_ , in spite of their chorus of “yup”s. Derek, wisely in Stiles’ opinion, doesn’t look convinced. “I’m taking Stiles and Lemon out to the car and when I come back in here we’re going to have a conversation about boundaries.” Laura wiggles her fingers at Stiles and winks.

“Toodles!” This earns her another eye roll, but then Stiles and Derek are leaving the lobby, exhausted dog in tow, leaving the none-too-subtle whispering of Derek’s siblings behind.

“Sorry,” Derek says somewhat stiffly, glancing back at the glass doors from where they stand beside Stiles’ car. Stiles opens the backdoor and hefts Lemon inside, not bothering to detach her lead, as she’s obviously too tired to garrotte him with it today. Plus it limits the likelihood of the aforementioned game of ‘Chase Me Chase Me,” which is nowhere near as fun as Monopoly. And Monopoly isn't even  _fun_. He shuts the door and leans against it, crossing his arms.

“For what?” he asks, curious as to what part of today was meant to not be totally magical.

“For my sisters,” he elaborates, jerking his head towards the building. “They don’t think I get out enough.”

“But I’ve seen you at the park and stuff,” Stiles says, raising his eyebrows. “I mean, it’s not exactly a big social scene but it counts, right?” Derek looks a little shifty.

“That… may have been a recent development.”

Stiles gapes at him.

“Oh my god,” he says slowly (for what has to be the millionth time today). “You’ve been crushing on me! You came to my local park on the off-chance that I’d be there, this is _amazing_.” Derek sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“Can you stop being surprised that I’m attracted to you please?” Stiles shakes his head.

“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’ enthusiastically. “I’m pretty sure you were actually carved out of marble by Michelangelo or something, I’m just not sure how-” He’s cut off in his totally reasonable explanation by a surprisingly soft pair of lips meeting his own. The kiss only lasts for a second before Derek moves back a couple of inches, but Stiles is - for the first time in his life - stunned into silence.

“You,” Derek says, slowly and deliberately, “are beautiful and frustrating, and this isn’t a private enough place for me to tell you all things I’d like to do with your mouth, but I’d really like to show you some time.” Stiles swallows, and Derek’s eyes flicker down to watch the movement of his throat.

“That was pretty convincing,” Stiles manages to say after a moment, though it comes out a little more breathless than he’d intended. A small, slightly predatory smile starts to spread across Derek’s face and Stiles is _definitely_ getting a hard-on in a parking lot, oh god. “How soon can we do that dinner exactly?”

“I can do tonight?”

“Any sooner than that?” Derek huffs out a laugh.

“I’ll pick you up at 7.” Stiles nods and, since he’s _obviously_ got this on lockdown now, leans forward to press a chaste kiss of his own to Derek’s mouth. At the last minute, however, Derek tilts his head slightly and the kiss is immediately much deeper and dirtier than Stiles had intended it to be -- it’s so good it makes his toes curl and he lets out a barely-there groan of pleasure. The merest scrape of teeth along his bottom lip and he’s opening up beneath Derek’s mouth without even thinking about it, and there’s tongue and -- okay yeah, he’s definitely hard now, but that’s okay because Derek is close enough that Stiles knows he’s in a similar state. Derek has one big, warm hand on his neck, fingers threading through his hair, while the other has worked its way under his t-shirt to rest on the bare skin of his hipbone, his thumb drawing firm, lazy circles that send little fissures of pleasure up Stiles’ spine.

Eventually Derek pulls away, but he seems reluctant, and the soft movement of his thumb doesn’t stop for a few seconds. He opens his (slightly kiss-swollen) mouth to say something but instead freezes, cocking his head to the side like Lemon does when she can hear something human ears can’t. Derek starts to flush after a few seconds and Stiles can take an educated guess at what he’s hearing.

“I assume the Hale sisters are saying some pretty lewd things out of human range?” he suggests, and Derek snorts.

“I don’t think ‘lewd’ is a strong enough word. But you really should go before I do any irreparable damage to my reputation,” he says with a wry smile. Stiles smiles back, completely helpless against it, and tries not to let out a completely ridiculous whimper when Derek takes his hands away and steps back. Derek’s gaze strays downwards and he immediately looks back up again, the flush once again reaching his ears. Stiles raises his eyebrows.

“Irreparable damage, right?” he repeats, trying to ignore the fact that he’s hard and Derek _knows_ he’s hard and is apparently very interested in that fact. Derek lets out a sigh of frustration, folding his arms again as though that will stop him doing any more bad touching. Or good touching. _Really good_ touching. Stiles opens his car door and slides into the driver’s seat, turning on the ignition so he can roll the window down.

“Okay, I’m gonna go home and jerk off now. I’ll see you at 7?” Derek’s eyes flash blue and he honest-to-god _growls_. And if Stiles thought he was hard before, he’s pretty sure he’s found a new matter state with how turned on he is right now. Yeah, he’s so into that. Derek steps forward and leans slightly into the open window.

“I guess we’re going to get to that list sooner rather than later,” he says in a low voice, looking pointedly at Stiles’ mouth for a few seconds before meeting his eyes again. Stiles nods, not trusting himself to speak, and Derek turns quickly to start walking back to the lobby. Stiles lets out a long breath and rolls up the window. This isn’t going to be a comfortable car journey.

* * *

 

True to his word, the second he’s got Lemon into her bed he hobbles off to his own, shutting the door firmly behind him. He shucks his pants in record time and pulls his still aching dick out of his underwear without bothering to take off his shirt. He sits down on edge of the bed but doesn’t bother getting the lube out of his nightstand - he’s already made a significant wet patch on the front of his boxers, so he’s definitely not going to need it. He wraps a hand around himself and gives a few experimental tugs, biting his bottom lip against a groan; he’s been about 10 seconds from coming since that kiss, and the car journey doesn’t seem to have dulled that feeling at all.

He takes a second to take off his underwear so he can spread his legs, then gathers some of pre-come that’s gathering at the tip as he once again fists his dick in his hand. He imagines Derek between his legs, kissing up the inside of his thighs, mouthing at his balls and looking up at him with those flashing eyes. He moves a hand to his balls, tugging them gently as he increases the pace of his other hand. Stiles moans as he imagines Derek taking the tip of his cock into his mouth, slowly taking in the length of him and hollowing his cheeks; imagines him taking out his own weeping dick and jerking himself while he takes Stiles deep into his mouth. He imagines Derek groaning around his cock, pulling back to suckle on the head and letting him come into the sweet, hot wetness of his mouth -- and suddenly Stiles is coming so hard he almost doubles over with the force of it.

“ _Jesus_.” He’s panting with exertion and he knows without a doubt that he’s probably going to need to do that again in half an hour if he wants to get through dinner without jumping across the table and just… well, enacting some very specific fantasies.

Not that he has an exhibitionist kink. Unless Derek does. Then he’s _all for it_.

He cleans himself up - he’ll shower as close to 7 as possible so he can get another session of _me time_ in before dinner - then puts some food down for a rabidly hungry Lemon, who seems content to lie back on her bed after stuffing her face.

He then makes the mistake of working on his thesis for while, because he becomes way too engrossed in angrily muttering to himself about Bram Stoker while he crosses things out viciously with a barely-there stub of pencil. The only thing that brings him out of his stupor is, unfortunately, a knock on the door.

He looks at the clock. It’s 7.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers fervently under his breath, scrambling up from where he’s slumped in front of his laptop and various papers and running over to a mirror. “Fuck,” he says again. It’s very important that the Universe knows how he feels about this situation. He stares at his reflection in desperation; his hair is an absolute mess where he’s been running his hands through it and he hasn’t had time for a shower yet but he doesn’t look totally terrible. Either way it’ll have to do because suddenly there’s another knock, this one more tentative, and Stiles skids on socked feet towards the door before Derek can do something heartbreaking like _leave_.

He flings the door open and, for what must be the tenth time in as many hours, feels most of the breath leave his body. Derek’s wearing a dark purple Henley that clings to him like _sin_ , and the corner of his mouth is quirked up in a half-smile. He’s so beautiful that it’s almost physically painful.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, beckoning Derek in with a flailing hand. “I got caught up in my thesis while Lemon was asleep - I am such a-” Derek steps inside the house, eyes dark, and closes the door behind him only to push Stiles against it in one smooth motion. Stiles absolutely does not squeak when Derek drags his nose up his neck, nuzzling behind his ear and taking a deep, slightly shuddering breath.

“You smell like sex,” he says in a low voice, and Stiles’ entire body melts against the door in response. Honestly, he’s pretty sure Derek’s training _him_ now. He’s forever going to have a Pavlovian response to the guy’s voice for years to come.

“I haven’t had time to shower,” he responds, grabbing Derek’s biceps and trying not to mewl pathetically as the other man does something delightful to his neck involving a lot of teeth and an equally judicious application of tongue. “Oh Christ, we are definitely not going to dinner if you’re going to keep on doing that.” Derek pauses in his ministrations, pulling back to stare at Stiles with an unreadable gaze.

“You already smell good to me,” he finally says, that voice of his still low and doing things to Stiles’ body that usually only actual physical nudity is able to do to him. “But if you’re going to go around smelling like _this_ then you’re right - we can’t go to dinner.” Derek raises his eyebrows and Stiles reaches up, tentatively framing the other man’s face with his hands. He brushes his thumbs over his criminally chiseled cheekbones and then moves his right hand to wrap around Derek’s neck, pulling him in until their faces are almost touching.

“Do you want to know what I thought about when I touched myself earlier?” he whispers, the heat of Derek’s gaze and body making him dizzy with confidence. Derek nods, eyes not leaving Stiles’. One of his hands moves away from Stiles’ neck and ends up beneath his shirt again, blunt nails digging pleasantly into the small of his back, grounding him. Stiles pulls Derek closer, so their bodies are pressed together and he can feel Derek’s erection against his own.

“I imagined you between my legs, sucking my cock like you were greedy for it,” he says quietly, shifting his hand so he can press a thumb firmly against Derek’s pulse point. “I imagined you fucking into your own fist as you swallowed me down, and I thought about coming in your mouth.”

Their mouths are almost touching now and Derek is breathing heavily. Stiles is so turned on he thinks his legs would give out if Derek let go of him.

“But what I really want to know,” he continues, brushing their lips together with just the barest pressure, “is all the things you’d like to do to my mouth.” The insinuation of exactly what Stiles would let Derek do to his mouth and every other part of him (read: _everything_ ) proves too much, and Derek crushes their mouths together in a dizzying, claiming kiss.

Things devolve pretty quickly from there.

Stiles is no stranger to moving fast but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this in-sync with anyone he’s slept with. It takes them ten minutes to get to the bedroom, but only because they pass the kitchen. Just as Stiles is thinking _fuck I wish he’d blow me on the counter_ Derek is grabbing him under the thighs and planting him there like he’s a fucking wish-granting genie or something. Seconds later he’s got Stiles’ jeans unbuttoned -

(“Fuck, you’re killing me-”)

(“Who wears underwear after they’ve come all over themselves?”)

\- and his most recent fantasy is coming true in glorious, 3D technicolour. To the surprise of _no-one_ , Stiles comes in less than a minute, because apparently being a werewolf means no gag reflex, and Stiles practically sobs his way through his orgasm -- he knew _in theory_ that blowjobs could be that good, but having experienced one now he’s not sure how anybody gets anything done. Why aren’t people just blowing each other all the time? How does anyone with a penis function having had the perfect blowjob?

Suddenly Derek is kissing him with a red, slightly swollen mouth that tastes of him - and it’s not a good taste exactly but it’s still hot because it’s all the result of a spectacular blowjob. Stiles can definitely deal.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” Stiles asks somewhat dreamily when Derek sees fit to stop kissing him for a moment.

“I’m terrible at the flute,” he says, completely deadpan - he allows Stiles a few seconds of laughter before he’s sweeping him up again and carrying him through to the bedroom. Stiles is thrown - actually _thrown_ \- onto his own bed (there are so many things he’s ticking off his sex bucket list today, and he didn’t even realise he _had_ a sex bucket list) and then Derek is stripping off his shirt and Stiles starts scrambling to remove his own clothes too.

“I probably should’ve covered this earlier,” he says conversationally as he kicks his last serviceable pair of jeans off into a distant corner of his bedroom. “I’m clean but I completely understand if you want to use condoms.”

“I’m a werewolf, Stiles,” Derek says roughly, shucking his own jeans and underwear, leaving Stiles with a mouthwatering view that immediately captures his attention. “I can’t catch or carry anything. If you want to use-” Stiles shakes his head emphatically and makes grabby motions with his hands. He needs to get his hand on Derek’s dick _yesterday_. It is, predictably, gorgeous, and slightly bigger than his own, and he is going to have a lot of fun doing everything he can think of to it.

Derek climbs over him and Stiles’ brain should probably be chanting _predator, danger,_ etc. but instead all he’s getting is a valiant twitch from his dick, which kind of just tells him what he already knew: he has no survival instincts at all.

Derek’s weight on him is calming and exciting all at once, pinning him down in a way that should make him claustrophobic but doesn’t. The kiss is frantic and biting, and when Stiles _finally_ gets his hand around Derek they both make some pretty undignified noises and it’s _amazing_. They're not really kissing any more, just panting into each other’s mouths and damn but Stiles is hard again - he hasn’t had this kind of refractory period since he was a teenager and first found out what his dick was for. He presses open-mouthed kisses up Derek’s neck and bites at the shell of his ear, getting a sharp exhalation of breath and a particularly enthusiastic thrust for his trouble.

“This is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me and I kind of want you to fuck me after this,” he says conversationally, tightening his grip minutely around Derek dick. The other man swears and thrusts once more into the circle of Stiles’ fist before shuddering through his orgasm, gasping wetly into Stiles’ shoulder. Derek - very kindly - decides not to collapse on him, falling instead to the side; Stiles is glad, because he kind of needs his lungs and stuff to live. Derek is _not_ a small guy.

They get their breath back in relative silence for a few minutes, breathing into the growing darkness side-by-side. Stiles finds Derek’s hand and they intertwine their fingers, and Stiles smiles into the darkness, chest still rising and falling rapidly as he tries to find his equilibrium.

For once in his life he’s not even mad about missing dinner.

Eventually Derek lets go of his hand and turns onto his side, propping his head up on his hand. He’s smiling so softly it actually hurts Stiles a little bit to see it; how can that mean so much to him when they’ve only known each other for a week or so? It’s ridiculous. _He’s_ ridiculous. But then, he’s always been a closet romantic.

Derek’s eyes drift down to where Stiles is still hard, aching slightly though the need is faint in light of their recent activities. Derek’s grin widens and Stiles is helpless - he has to smile back.

* * *

 

Derek opens him up for what feels like hours, and at one point he’s fairly certain he’s just _swearing_ at the guy for a solid minute, trying to get him to _just fucking move while we’re still young_.

When he finally slides inside it’s a fullness Stiles has never felt before, and he feels tears prick at his eyes for some godforsaken reason; it feels unbearably good, and he wraps his legs around Derek’s waist to urge him on, to spur him into some kind of action.

“It’s never - _fuck_ -” a particularly well-placed thrust has Stiles whining and throwing his head back as he presses his heels insistently into the small of Derek’s back. “It’s never been like this before. Are you - are you magic? Are you a wizard? Are werewolves also wizards? Fuck, why not, my life is already so weird.” Derek laughs - a deep rumbling sound - the noise hitching on the next breath as he draws almost all the way out before thrusting in sharply at such an angle that Stiles cries out, arching his spine and seeking out Derek’s mouth with his own almost blindly.

When they finally come Stiles goes first, Derek mumbling curse words and nonsensical compliments into Stiles’ collarbone until he follows suit, his thrusts growing ragged and ill-timed at the onslaught of sensations.

It is, without a doubt, the best sex Stiles has ever had in his life. It’s possible it’s the best sex he will _ever_ have in his life -- unless Derek allows this spectacular event to occur again, in which case all bets are off. It might get _better_.

 _Christ_ , he thinks, eyes closed as he catches his breath. _If it gets better I might actually die. Has anyone died of sex before? Death by too much good sex?_ He reaches for his phone, eyes still closed, and Derek lets out a snort of laughter.

“What are you doing?”

“I need to know if anyone’s ever died of good sex,” Stiles replies, putting all the remaining energy he has into not slurring any of his words; he’s actually nearly falling asleep but this is really important. Wikipedia has all the answers.

“How about you nap and I order takeout?” Stiles groans.

“That’s the best sentence anyone has ever said to me ever. And someone once told me I’d got into Berkeley, so don’t misunderstand my enthusiasm here,” he says rolling onto his side so that he can clutch at his phone and, without opening his eyes, try and google ‘sex death’.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Pizza?” Stiles groans again, this time for slightly longer to indicate that pizza is his main squeeze, and possibly the love of his life.

“Yesssssss.”

“I assume you’re okay with meat lover’s,” Derek says drily, and Stiles sniggers, still a little sex-drunk.

“What gave you that idea?”

“You are unbelievable. I can’t believe I like you.”

“But you do!”

“Yes Stiles - I do. I thought I was fairly clear about that.”

“You _did_ touch my dick.”

“Yes, and now I’m about to buy you pizza.”

“And they say romance is dead!”

* * *

 

It’s very possible that Stiles falls asleep while trying to Google sex-related deaths, since the next thing he remembers is being gently shaken awake - along with the glorious smell of melted mozzarella and sizzling meat.

“You’re the best person,” he says groggily, as Derek manages to get pyjamas on him, and lead him into the kitchen to wash his hands, one arm tightly wound around his waist.

“It’s been said,” he replies mildly, somehow managing to wash and dry Stiles' hands and get both of them onto bar stools without any horrendous accidents occurring. Lemon is sniffing around their feet, having been roused from her slumber by the aforementioned smells of melted mozzarella and sizzling meat. No man nor beast can resist the call.

“It’s not _for_ you,” Stiles says firmly, picking up a hot slice of pizza and sheltering it with his whole body, as though a puppy with legs like fun size Mars bars would have a snowball’s chance in hell of taking it from him. Derek has already eaten three slices of pizza, and Stiles would be mad about his abs except he gets to touch them so who cares really. He probably has to work for them. And Stiles may not be totally out of shape thanks to his overly energetic dog and his ADHD, but he is still a programmer, so most of his life is spent indoors.

With pizza.

He smiles, somewhat groggily, at the slice he’s holding, and manages to burn his tongue almost immediately upon taking a bite.

“ _Ow_ ,” he says indignantly, pausing in his quiet rage to take another bite of pizza. He is not smart when he’s sex-drunk apparently.

Derek snorts, but his look of adoration (Stiles totally called it - he’s not immune to the Stilinski charm) fades slightly when he reaches for his gently buzzing phone.

“Sorry, it’s Laura - she’s my Alpha, I have to take this.” Stiles waves his hands in a manner that’s meant to get across an air of ‘hey don’t worry about’ but in reality probably projects an air of ‘I cannot be trusted with anything breakable’. They’re very similar.

Derek slides his thumb across the screen and brings the phone to his ear.

“Hi Laura… No, I’m fine. Yes, we had a great time.” He looks at Stiles as he says this and Stiles grins goofily at him, Derek responding immediately with a warm smile. Then he frowns. “What do you -- Laura, you _followed me to the house?_ ” He sounds incensed, but Stiles is already starting to put the picture together and he’s trying desperately not to laugh into his pizza. “Laura that’s way out of line. Yes, I _know_ you’re my Alpha, but it’s just a date!” His face goes red. “That’s none of your business. I’m not dead so if you don’t mind I’m going to go back to my pizza.” His eyes flick up. “And to my boyfriend.” He hangs up, but even Stiles’ puny human ears can hear Laura’s enthusiastic crowing at the word ‘boyfriend’. He’s about ten seconds from crowing himself.

Stiles swallows his bite of pizza and puts the rest of the slice down, wiping his hands on a piece of kitchen towel that Derek put aside for him - he’s not just hot and a super-strength-having werewolf, he’s also kind and genuine and apparently _mad_ into hygiene since he made Stiles wash his hands before he was allowed to touch the pizza.

He’s a sexy dork. It’s so endearing.

And apparently he’s Stiles’ _boyfriend_.

“Is that okay?” Derek asks gruffly, not looking up from what may now be his twentieth pizza slice - Stiles hasn’t been keeping track.

The grin that spread across Stiles’ face almost splits it in half.

“I have never been more okay in my life. And I was voted ‘most likely to be okay’ in my high school yearbook.” Derek finally meets his eyes, the warm smile back again and causing the corners of his impossibly beautiful eyes to crinkle slightly.

Stiles smiles back helplessly. He’s in so fucking deep.

* * *

 

**_2 months later_ **

“Will you _relax_?” Stiles asks, pulling a tie out of Derek’s wringing hands and tossing it into the corner of their hotel room. “You don’t need to wear a tie, for God’s sake, you look amazing.” Derek raises an eyebrow but it doesn’t erase the anxiety on his face.

“I’m meeting your dad for the first time today, Stiles - it’s a big deal.” Stiles rolls his eyes.

“He’s just a guy with a red meat habit that I’m trying to crack, who happens to be related to me.”

“He’s the Sheriff. He’s got a _gun_.”

“Even if he did shoot you - which he won’t!” Stiles hastens to add, smoothing down the front of Derek’s effortlessly attractive navy shirt. “You would heal! Because you’re basically a superhero. A superhero who is kind of 100% definitely banging the Sheriff’s son.” Derek cover Stiles’ hands with his own.

“Stiles. He’s your dad. He’s the most important person in the world to you - I want him to like me.” Stiles hates how sincere he’s being, because it causes such a conflict inside of him. Should he comfort him? Or should he just drop to his knees and give him an anxiety-relieving blowjob?

Stiles raises an eyebrow.

* * *

 

“Now I have to meet your dad knowing that we just did _that_ and with you smelling all…” Derek takes a deep inhalation, flaring his nostrils slightly. The eye flash comes soon after, and _damn_ but that never stops doing it for Stiles. He grins.

“But you feel less anxious now, right?”

Derek doesn’t get a chance to answer because the Sheriff answers the door a mere heartbeat after Stiles knocks. They throw their arms around each other immediately, Stiles squeezing with a strength belied by his form; Derek knows, he’s seen and felt the lithe muscle underneath all of those frustrating layers.

Eventually they pull apart and Stiles immediately places a hand in the small of Derek’s back, warm and comforting. He’s so intuitive with the wolf stuff that Derek would’ve been suspicious that he already knew about it, if not for his excitement upon learning literally anything about werewolves.

(“Do you guys have mates?” “...Stiles.” “What, I read it in a book! It seemed pretty legit. I mean, it smelled weird, but what old book doesn’t, right?” “Stiles, do we have to talk about this right now?” “...Fuck, mates totally exist don’t they?” “...” “ _Are we mates?”_ “...I’m not talking about this right now.” “I’m calling Laura.” “Stiles---”)

“Dad, this is Derek,” Stiles says proudly, his chest almost visibly puffing up as he presents his dog-training werewolf boyfriend to his father. Derek reaches out to take the Sheriff’s hand in a firm handshake, giving a small smile and a nod.

“Very pleased to meet you, Sir. Stiles never stops talking about you.” Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Come on - my main topic of conversation is food.”

“Which is how your father usually comes up,” Derek argues, raising an eyebrow. “Weren’t you considering having cameras installed to make sure he’s not sneaking in any red meat?” Stiles gapes (and god how Derek wishes he didn’t find that attractive, but he hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he had a list) and the Sheriff smiles fully and genuinely at Derek.

“Come in, son - it seems we have a lot to talk about. And bring my beautiful granddaughter with you,” he says, his voice turning syruppy as he briefly squats down to pet an excited and adoring Lemon, as she waits patiently on the lead.

“Hey, now wait a second--” Stiles splutters, following his boyfriend and dog into the house and closing the door behind him.

* * *

 

The street is quiet, but from the open windows in the Stilinski house there issues forth the odd peal of laughter, as well as the petulant sounds of a son trying to retain control over a father who has _absolutely_ been cheating on his diet in the son’s absence.

* * *

 

The Sheriff (“call me Noah, son”) takes the  _furry_ news well, and doesn’t reach for his gun even once during the conversation. He says everything makes a lot of sense, and “the boy’s eyebrows are a little supernatural all in themselves.”

“I know right!” Stiles says delightedly.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek growls.

* * *

 

And when Stiles finally finds out about Mates, the only thing he really has to say about matters is that Derek should probably put a ring on it.

And Derek does.

**Author's Note:**

> Filth filth filth.
> 
> For my new friend and non-judgemental buddy, aussiebee. Love you, girl. Let me remind you that you were the one that told me to finish this, so technically it's your fault? I'll see you in Hell.
> 
> If you enjoyed this absolute filth, please kudos, comment, and send actual literal puppies to my address. I can't give my address out on the internet, but if it's meant to be then you can figure it out. I believe in serendipity.
> 
> The formatting is all wonky but it's very late and I just wanted to publish this before crawling into bed and, most likely, waking up my wife -- but HEY, we all have a cross to bear. Some people don't like Marmite. Some people have never seen an episode of Midsomer Murders. I recognise and accept my privilege.


End file.
